


Please Come Get Me

by Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, HLV, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, drug mention, series 3 missing scenes, vaguely implied Johnlock at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket/pseuds/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is living the married life and Sherlock is working a case. Both needs the others' help, but neither can say it. Not in as many words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Come Get Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a prompt of the phrase 'please come get me' and the pairing Johnlock. The Johnlock is very ambiguous and you can absolutely read it as just friendship if you want. Un-beta'd. Let me know if you spot a mistake.

The endless rows of paint tins had been staring back at John for however long it had taken him to read each colour name twice and think ‘who comes up with this shit?’ each time. The problem with not knowing whether he would be painting a room for a little girl or a little boy was that he didn’t know which end of the spectrum to be focussing on. The problem, he realised after thinking _that_ , was that that type of thinking was a problem, and honestly who gives a fuck? Probably not a non-verbal, short-sighted newborn.

 

Something pastel, Mary had said, something soft.

 

Soft colour. Jesus, John was the wrong person for this.

 

Honestly he didn’t know what was wrong with the current creamy white colour that already covered the soon-to-be nursery. Mary had said it wasn’t very visually stimulating. John argued that it wouldn’t keep the baby awake then, would it?

 

He’d been thoroughly ignored and sent off to investigate options.

 

Standing there in the middle of B&Q, thinking about investigating in turn got John thinking about Sherlock, and the image of _him_ stood there in John’s place trying to choose between Periwinkles and Lavender Blushes and Papaya Whips forced an ugly snort out of John that was both loud and immediately embarrassing. As casually as possible he looked towards the end of the aisle and the retreating woman there who was just turning the corner and pretending not to look back at John to figure out what he’d found so funny.

 

Still smiling, John straightened and looked back at his colourful nemeses. He really had no idea what he was doing. Without a second thought he reached for his phone and opened a new text message.

 

_Please come get me._

 

He chuckled. It was practically muscle memory, typing out those four words. It was a phrase that had been established a long time ago as his and Sherlock’s shorthand for ‘I’m trying to be normal and failing spectacularly’. He’d used it in the past when a date had gone south and he needed an out, or work at the surgery was too mind-numbing to handle. Sherlock would show up with a ridiculous ‘urgent’ need for John’s assistance and off they’d go. Sherlock had used it on the odd occasion he’d been roped into helping Mrs Hudson with something or other, or Lestrade had kept him at the Yard to help with statements. John usually showed up in a less dramatic fashion and simply made the polite excuses Sherlock found so hard to formulate.

 

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d sent it. Not since Sherlock had come back. Not in almost 3 years at least, then.

 

The smile slid off his face at that. It wasn’t the same now. Even if Sherlock did turn up, where would they go? What would they do? Go and get coffee and fail at pretending to be normal at something else?

 

He hadn’t seen Sherlock in nearly a month. The last time had been the reception. He’d looked up and Sherlock was gone, and there had been nothing since. The only way John knew Sherlock was even still alive was thanks to the occasional message from Mrs Hudson that included mention of Sherlock being ‘his usual self’.

 

The angry guilt swirled in John’s stomach. The fact of their lack of contact after everything they’d been through biting at him now that he allowed himself to think about it again. John should call. Sherlock should call. They should try harder. But the sad fact was it just wasn’t the same any more. John had new priorities and Sherlock… well Sherlock would move on, if he hadn’t already.

 

John held the back button on his phone until the message disappeared, locked it and slid it back in his pocket. He moved down the aisle to stand in front of the yellows and gave them one last look over before grabbing a tin of ‘Vanilla’.

  
  
  


In the end, Mary told him to get a different one.

  
  


\-------------------------------

 

Sherlock doesn’t remember it stinging quite so much. That short, sharp spike of sensation as the skin is breached; he doesn’t remember that. Though, to be fair, there’s a lot from that time he’s not totally clear on. Even so, he feels like it’s something he would remember. Moments after, it’s of little consequence, and the warm hum at the base of his skull is really all he’s thinking about.

 

Almost.

 

He’s not completely unaware of his surroundings. He can see the others in his periphery. He can hear a cough or a sniff from time to time, even a faint mumbling from the girl in the far corner. The mattress is lumpy and uncomfortable underneath him. And the stale, damp, putrid smell seems to have stuck to the inside of his nostrils.

 

But all of that is taking up only minimal space in his cognitive hardrive. That warmth that is beginning to trickle down his spine is his main focus. That, and a face that is smudged and distorted against the backs of his eyelids whenever they slide shut.

 

His dose isn’t what it used to be. This is for a case, not pleasure - though the pleasurable benefits aren’t lost to him - so the dose has been modified accordingly. Enough to pass for a relapse, too little to cause a gross impairment. Even if he were impaired, the threat here is minimal. He knows at least 2 of his homeless network frequent this particular den regularly enough to have told the others who he is and that he’s better kept on side than made an enemy. He befriended Billy as well just in case. Billy fancies himself as a security guard and is of passable intelligence. Plus, he always carries a knife. Also someone better kept on side.

 

With the threat removed, Sherlock’s main goal is to wait for Magnussen to take the bait and make it look like he’s enjoying himself. Stretching himself out on the lumpy bed he claimed as his for the day, Sherlock lets out a sigh-come-moan and revels in the pleasant sensations washing over him. Looking like he’s enjoying it shouldn’t be too hard.

 

He closes his eyes and is once again faced with the almost-image of a person he doesn’t want to think about. He knows who it is. Sherlock suspects the sting in his arm that never used to be there is somehow linked to this wholly unsurprising apparition.

 

Disapproval. That’s what the sting is. The disapproval of a doctor.

 

The disapproval of a friend.

 

Sherlock sighs again in a way that sounds nothing like a moan. The lack of impairment from the lower dosage may mean he is better equipped to fend off any threats, but less equipped to fight off unwanted thoughts. He needs more if he’s going to do that.

 

Still laying down, Sherlock begins to reach into his pocket for his lighter, contemplating heating up another dose, when his hand brushes his phone. He takes it out and starts slowly turning it over in his hand without thinking.

 

For whatever reason, at this most inopportune of times, he wants to talk to John. Just contact of any kind. He hasn’t tried for any in a month, yet now he wants a reminder of John’s existence.

 

Sherlock swipes open the lock on his phone and goes to the thread of texts between himself and John. The last one, from John, had been on the morning of the wedding.

 

_You won’t forget the ring will you._

 

Sherlock hadn’t deigned to reply to that one. John had called him shortly afterwards any way so he hadn’t needed to.

 

It was the last visible piece of evidence Sherlock had of their friendship. He kept nothing from the reception, the suit had been a rental, and all of the wedding plans had been thrown away. Even the promise he made that day, a promise to always be there for John, was broken and discarded.

 

Suddenly and quite intensely Sherlock wanted something new, a renewal of what they had had.

 

He tapped the box at the bottom of the thread and held his thumb over the keyboard. How does one open the lines of communication again after having closed them so firmly?

 

There was a phrase he had used the day after he met John Watson that had become something else over time between them, a sort of code that immediately got the others’ attention and said ‘I need you’ without saying that at all.

 

_Please come get me._

 

Sherlock looked at the words. They hadn’t said it to one another in years. It still sent something through him though, something familiar and warm in a way that wasn’t dissimilar to how the drugs felt.

 

Something self-deprecating and a touch spiteful made him add his initials to the end of the message on the chance that John had deleted his number, and that John would know that’s why Sherlock had done it and make him feel shameful for it.

 

Sherlock hated himself for that thought and deleted the message completely. What if John _had_ replied? What if he’d turned up and saw Sherlock like this? It wouldn’t have made Sherlock feel better, it wouldn’t have undone the last month, the last 8 months, the last 3 years.

 

He let his phone fall onto the mattress and rolled onto his side. Later he’d call Janine and ask her to come round. She was pleasant company and didn’t ask unwanted questions (apart from one that he could easily avoid).

 

He didn’t need John Watson at all. He needed a clear head.

 

He needed the work.

  
He needed a higher dose.


End file.
